Picking up the Pieces
by Tanba Josav
Summary: There were many traditions for mourning the dead, each one designed to help the living remember lost loved ones. Yes there was many ways to mourn the dead and this was his. Harold Finch contemplates events after episodes 3x09 and 3X10 COMPLETE


Picking up the Pieces

Person of Interest is the creation of Jonathon Nolan and JJ Abrams. I do not make any money from writing this and am only playing in the rich universe they have created.

Author's Note: This is set very directly after the episodes 3x09 and 3x10, so spoilers and all that, if you haven't watched them.

* * *

Harold Finch sat in his old swivel chair in the library. It said a lot about his life that this was the one place he felt most at home. The cursor on the screen blinked endlessly at him as he stared off into the distance, the fingers of his right hand occasionally twitching as if he was typing on an invisible keyboard as he mentally wrote code in his head. It was his way of distracting himself from recent events; to distance himself from reality. Harold wanted to lose himself in the purity of code, where everything was exact and could always be counted on to work out as long as your maths added up. Not like this messy thing called life, where bad things happened and friends died.

Sighing, Harold dropped his hand onto the desk and looked about the room. It was quiet, too quiet. Bear was standing guard over a comatose Mr Reese, while Miss Groves was safely back in her Faraday cage. While Harold was grateful for the assistance in finding John during his brief rampage he still distrusted her motives and having Miss Groves locked up was preferable to her being at large in New York.

Miss Shaw was, Harold frowned slightly as he looked about, heavens knows where but since he hadn't heard any alarming calls for assistance from the police band radio he had to assume that whatever she was doing Miss Shaw was being circumspect for a change. The last Harold had checked Detective Fusco was at the precinct. He had probably finished processing Simmons and was now enjoying the well deserved accolades of his colleagues. With both Simmons and Quinn now in custody Finch hoped that they could finally put the whole HR business behind them.

Harold thought of the man lying in a hospital bed in the next room. No, they could never really put this behind them. Not after the losses they had sustained in this long fight. It was the loss of Detective Beecher that had caused Detective Carter to throw caution to the wind and take the fight to HR's doorstep and it was the cruel death of Jocelyn that had almost tipped Mr Reese over the edge and could have easily taken his life as well.

Harold pulled off his glasses, closing his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on, not surprising after the last two days. Images flashed through his mind, scattering the carefully constructed code he had worked so hard to build. Once again he found himself back at that night Detective Carter was killed.

Survivor's guilt is a heavy burden, he knew from past experience. How many times would he go over this in his head, playing the 'what if' card? What if he had parked directly outside the precinct? What if Mr Reese and Detective Carter had turned left instead of right? What if Mr Reese had been armed? What if Harold hadn't paid the bail until the next morning? What if he hadn't hesitated when the payphone had started ringing? Would any of those decisions have changed anything?

Instead events had played out and Harold had stood there in the street as a good police officer bled out on a dirty pavement. He had watched frozen as two of his closest associates . . . no, Harold grimaced, lets be honest now; two of his _friends_ had been shot. One had died and the other had been overcome with grief. The intensity of John's feelings had shocked Harold a little. He knew that John was fond of Carter; he had stopped referring to her as an asset a long time ago. And Harold knew how much John valued his friends, the lengths the man had gone to rescue his employer spoke to the depths of attachment this damaged assassin placed on the few people that mattered in his life. And there was nothing Harold could do to ease his friend's pain but to bear witness to the events, all the while listening to the accusatory ringing of the payphone echoing up and down the empty street.

Harold frowned a little and put his glasses back on. To this day he was still unclear on how he had convinced John to leave Detective Carter's side. Ultimately he was certain the decision had been John's and not anything he had said. As much as it pained them both it was necessary for the continuing mission to leave her behind. Not that she had lain there long, Harold had made certain of that. One quick anonymous call from the payphone had ensured Detective Carter would be swiftly found and the blame placed squarely where it belonged.

Harold had been more concerned for John's well being. Triage dictated you concentrate your resources on the living, not the dead. Not that he was sure Mr Reese wanted to live, not if his almost self-destructive vendetta against Alonzo Quinn had been any indication. Harold shuddered at yet more memories. He had heard the expression "dead on your feet" before but never thought he would see it in actuality. To see John in that room; blood dripping from his hands, his life literally pouring out of him, swaying on his feet.

The sheer force and determination to have gotten that far, Harold was continually amazed at John's perseverance and dedication to his work. He just never thought he would see it turned to such ends. And for what, for revenge? Revenge doesn't bring back the dead, neither does guilt. More experience that Harold and John shared in common. Both emotions just hardened your heart and pulled you away from the people that needed you the most. The people who might save your soul, assuming you believed in that sort of thing.

Harold sighed as he picked up a small photograph off the table in front of him. It was a snapshot of Detective Carter, not an official one of any sort. But one that Mr Reece had taken during surveillance when Detective Carter's number had first come to their attention. It was a candid shot of her walking down a street talking on her cell. Her eyes were animated and a small smile lit up her face. She was probably talking to her son, Harold decided.

A bittersweet smile touched the corner of Finch's mouth as he gently brushed fingers over the photo. This is how he would choose to remember her. Her vibrant personality, her no nonsense attitude when it came to dealing with him and Mr Reese. How she had hounded them for months to let her into their inner circle and all the things she had done to help them save lives. How many lives had she saved over the years in her military career and later in her police work? It was quite a legacy to leave behind, even if most people would never know.

Harold tucked the photograph into the inner pocket of his jacket and slowly stood up, back aching and legs cramping slightly from sitting in one position too long. Turning he limped into the other room to check on Mr Reese. The doctor said it would take weeks for John to recover from his injuries. Harold didn't bother to correct the man; he knew that John would get out of the bed on his own time schedule and no one else's. Assuming that he chose to get up at all, John might physically recover, but mentally . . . emotionally? Ah, there was the rub. No one would know until John woke up. Until then all any of them could do was wait and hope.

Bear sat by his master's bed, head resting within easy reach if John should choose to wake up and pat him. The dog heard Harold's approach and turned his head to look at the older man, whining slightly in concern.

'I know, Bear,' Harold said quietly. 'I hope he wakes up soon, too.'

With another small whine Bear returned to his vigil. Harold watched them both for a few minutes before turning and walking away. He avoided the area where Miss Groves was currently residing. He still had reservations about that woman and her connection to the Machine. Maybe it was his wounded pride that prickled, he told himself. That the Machine had chosen to talk directly to another when he was its creator. Although he kept telling himself that he had dictated the terms that he and his creation would work on, but still, to know that the Machine had chosen of all people, _Root_. Harold pursed his lips as he moved deeper into the library. Like a child that was growing up, he guessed, he had to let the Machine make its own choices, even if he disagreed with them.

Finally near the back of the library Harold stopped in front of an indistinguishable bookshelf. It looked just like any of the other hundreds of shelves in the library, full of forgotten books. This one didn't hide any secret cubbyholes or hold any books with cut out interiors where he could hide vital information or vast sums of money. Not that Harold would ever desecrate a book like that; he shook his head at the thought that was completely barbaric.

He ran his fingers across the books, enjoying the feel of old leather and the cracked spines of books well loved. He hesitated when he reached the one he was looking for. His fingers curled up into a fist as he stood there listening to the silence that permeated the building. There were many traditions for mourning the dead, each one designed to help the living remember lost loved ones.

Detective Carter's funeral had been well attended. It had been an honour to have gone, even if he and Miss Shaw had kept their distance. There had been enough strangers wanting to pay their respects to a fallen hero that their presence wouldn't have been too obvious. The important people had sat near the front, where they could have the opportunity to share their thoughts. Harold thought Detective Fusco had been quite elegant in his words when he spoke about a partner and friend lost to them all. Although the need for a full gun salute seemed a little tasteless in Harold's opinion. Especially seeing how Detective Carter had died. But tradition was tradition, he supposed.

John couldn't attend, of course, at that stage he was still recovering from his initial injuries. If Harold had suspected the man would rise from his bed to begin a rampage he might have thought twice about leaving him alone. Not that John would have gone to the funeral, even if he was whole. His pain was of a private nature, he would have gone after the funeral to be alone with Carter's grave. Harold hoped he would still do so.

Harold reached up and pulled a book from the shelf, yes there was many ways to mourn the dead and this was his. The life they led was for obvious reasons full of danger. Harold thought he knew this, intellectually, but it wasn't until the death of his friend Nathan that reality had been brought home for the first time. Harold had tried to divert Nathan from his path, tried to distance them both from the Machine, but guilt is an amazing motivator and Nathan wouldn't be denied.

Harold couldn't see it at first. To him the Machine and the code was his crowning glory. It never crossed his mind that there had to be a reckoning, a penance for his genius. Nathan realised this with the irrelevant files, it was a shame Harold had been too stubborn to listen. So here he stood with yet another life to add to the cause, the mission. Another name and face to add to his ever growing list of regrets. Harold let the book in his hands fall open. It contained six photographs, scattered throughout the pages, no rhyme or reason for where they were placed, they were only in the order of the people who died.

John had not been the first person he had contacted for help regarding the numbers. There had been other, now how had Miss Groves so indelicately put it? Oh, yes, _helper monkeys, _that woman had a way with words. There had been others he had called on for aid, people he had recruited after extensive background checks. Checks he had revised and refined after every failure. It was obvious from the start that Harold could never do this on his own, Nathan had known that and still he had tried to do the right thing and ultimately paid the price. That was why his photograph was the first.

Harold flicked through the pages until he found the second photo. Edward 'Eddie' Steins, a rather disgruntled police officer who had been more than happy to throw away a career going nowhere for a chance at some good money. Maybe he hadn't been the most idealistic of employees but at the time Harold was still learning what was needed for the mission. Harold thought that Mr Steins had the necessary skill set to handle any situation; right up until a number they thought they were protecting turned and killed Mr Steins.

The next photograph showed an angry man by the name of Tommy Ellis. Mr Ellis was initially a number that Harold had tried to save on his own. A hardened criminal with an extensive career in burglary and assault, Mr Ellis was trying to turn his life around. People had epiphanies for the strangest of reasons and at the time Harold didn't know why Mr Ellis decided to change his path but adversity makes for strange bedfellows and Harold reluctantly recruited this criminal to help him. Turned out that the reason Mr Ellis was endeavouring to turn over a new leaf was because he had stolen from the wrong man. Mr Ellis was picked up on some trumped up charges and while in prison he was killed in a fight. Looking back Harold was now convinced that HR had something to do with the charges and the man Mr Ellis had stolen from was almost definitely Moretti.

The third photo was of a man who hadn't even accepted the position Harold had offered him. Sergeant Roberto Alvarez was a former Marine who Harold had hoped would make a solid addition to the cause. Sadly Sergeant Alvarez had rejected Harold's offer and had ended up shooting himself in his garage weeks later. Post traumatic stress syndrome the papers had said. The Marine had seemed to readjust well to civilian life but Harold suspected it was guilt from an incident that had happened over in Iraq during the first Gulf War that had triggered the suicide. While Sergeant Alvarez had never actively worked for Harold he still considered him one of the fallen.

After losing three men in just over thirteen months Harold tried a different tactic. He recruited a young woman by the name of Tracey Wong. A private investigator she had briefly served as a police officer before deciding that she preferred her independence and had started working for herself. Her skills were raw but Ms Wong had a natural talent for investigation and an idealism that rather gladdened Harold's increasingly jaded heart. He knew she was still working at her own job between the numbers and they had forged a respectable partnership that was only destroyed when a former client's ex-husband tracked Ms Wong down and shot her. Unfortunately because the ex-husband hadn't told anyone his intentions it was one of those instances that the Machine had been unable to predict.

The last photo showed a young black man grinning out at the world. Danton Banks was only supposed to be a temporary measure. By this stage Harold had already extensively investigated Mr Reese and was only looking for the right opportunity to approach him. To fill in the vacancy Harold had approached Mr Banks for assistance, a young medic with some modest computer skills who had served time in the National Guard overseas and was now working towards becoming a doctor. Harold's plan was to have Mr Banks work as back-up to Mr Reese when needed either on the street or with his medical knowledge. Those plans were dashed when Mr Banks was gunned down on the street one day. A simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and another promising life destroyed.

Harold placed the open book on the shelf and pulled the photograph from out of his jacket pocket. And now here was another photograph to add to the list; another life given to the mission, Detective Jocelyn Carter. It didn't matter that Harold had not directly recruited her into the cause, it was enough that she had died because of them. If she had never met John, never been dragged into the hunt for the Man in the Suit, would she have ever been a number in the first place, ever butted heads with HR and drawn the attention of Simmons and Quinn? Harold sighed, he would never know.

Placing the photo between thin pages Harold closed the book gently and began to run his fingers over and over the embossed gold letters on the cover. While her death was a great tragedy Harold decided he did not regret Detective Carter coming into their lives. She had been a calming influence on Mr Reese, a rock of stability in a world of constant change. She had been their compass pointing always towards justice and truth and she was never backwards in telling them when they had crossed the line. Harold regretted Detective Carter's need to compromise her ideals as she battled with HR but to play in their world you sometimes needed to get your hands dirty.

In the end she had called on them for help and, small a consolation as it was, had died amongst friends. It was not the plans Harold had hoped for Detective Carter. He had hoped that one day, down the line; she might replace Harold as the Machine's contact for Mr Reese. They had proven an ability to work well together and she had even started to unravel their secret right before her death. It would have been only a small step to fully introduce her to the Machine.

But some things were not meant to be. Harold slipped the Holy Bible back amongst the rest of the books on the shelf and turned away. He began his long trek back towards his computers. There were things to do: Mr Reese's bandages needed changing; Bear had to be fed, along with Miss Groves; Miss Shaw would inevitably show up and if he was lucky without any injuries and there was a matter of arranging a college scholarship for Taylor. And above all there were the numbers, the ever constant numbers. Lives that needed saving, even if it was only from themselves. If Jocelyn Carter's death was to have any meaning they needed to continue saving the numbers, no matter what it cost them.


End file.
